A Feminine Influence
by Taluliaka
Summary: Sherlock Holmes falls under a feminine influence of a very singular nature, causing Watson endless amusement. Series of drabbles/scenes.
1. The Case

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**A Feminine Influence**

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock Holmes. I do however, quite literally own 'Jemima'. Her picture should shortly be up on my profile, if you're curious. :)

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FROM THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.

It was in the first year of my marriage to Mary Morstan that the event I am about to record took place, when my friend Sherlock Holmes, he who had once sneered at the emotional nature of women, and who distanced himself in bachelorhood from them in order to preserve the precise and analytical mind with which he had been gifted, fell under the feminine influence of a singular character which caused me endless amusement and he much chagrin.

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It was drawing close to Christmas, and it seemed to me all of London was swarming about the streets as I approached my friend's lodgings one evening. On the pavement people hurried with brightly coloured packages, calling greetings to each other, all so caught up in the season of goodwill that I felt a smile come to my face, and I alighted at the end of Baker Street, that I might walk along and observe the activity about me. Seeing a newspaper stand, I purchased an edition, of a mind to see if there was any article of some sensational crime in which Holmes' considerable gifts might have been employed.

In my rapid scanning of the headlines I saw nothing, and as I arrived in front of that familiar pile I fervently hoped that such a period of inactivity had not driven my friend into one of his black moods, and the inevitable use of the cocaine-bottle. Nothing upset me more than the notion of that great mind disintegrating in the abyss of that infernal drug, and so it was in some haste that I ascended the stairs towards our sitting room, having greeted Mrs Hudson at the door and answered her inquiries as to my wife's health and our married life as swiftly as was tactful.

My fears were unfounded however, for upon entering the sitting room I was thrust out again instantly by my friend at a terrific pace. I have mentioned before how much Holmes was transformed when the working fit fell upon him, and he half-dragged me down the stairs in his eagerness. In the blink of an eye I found myself upon the pavement I had left but a few moments before, with Holmes bellowing for a cab beside me in between a series of rapid-fire questions and observations as to my person and recent doings.

"Cab! Watson, I was going to come by and knock you up. I thought you might want to be present at the end of this little problem, and I would be glad of some company on my visit to Robinson's. Two men, I think, might succeed in forcing his co-operation more promptly and with less danger than one, for he is not a small man. He was a suspect in the assault upon John Lyon not six months back, but thanks to Lestrade and his merry gang of police, and their combined ability to completely destroy a crime scene, now there is nothing to be done. How is Mrs Watson doing? I perceive that married life is treating you well Watson, although I would suggest not leaving your bag in reach of children when you attend a house call, for you fairly reek of antiseptic. Ah, CAB!"

No sooner had I gained the cab that we were off, and Holmes lapsed into a watchful silence, his eyes darting keenly over the Christmas shoppers that thronged the streets, allowing me the chance to construct a reply.

"Mary is very well, thank you Holmes, and I had not realised the smell was so strong, although you are perfectly correct in assuming that it was a child. I was looking in on a patient who was having complications with her pregnancy, and when I turned my back her eldest, who is a perfect little brat, had gone through my bag and succeeded in smashing several bottles. But I had no idea you were on a case! What is it?"

He gave me that half-smile peculiar to him, the swift quirk of his mouth which indicated amusement, or in most cases, professional satisfaction.

"It is a simple enough case, the theft of a family heirloom essential to a coming marriage, taken, I have no doubt, by one of the household staff. The butler had a particularly sinister look when I made inquiries amongst the servants. The only true problem lay in finding where the necklace was taken. Over the past few days I must have passed the doors of twenty or more pawn shops and disreputable jewelers seeking it. Ah, you can stop here!"

We alighted at the mouth of Swandam Lane, a dank place where I would wager all the filth of the city seethed, and where, in the gathering dusk, suspicious eyes glanced at us from the dim openings of opium dens and cheap taverns. Holmes strode unerringly through the crowd, and I followed swiftly upon his heels until we reached a looming store front, its windows edged with mildew and streaked with dust. '_Robinsons'_' was splayed in peeling letters on the sign above the door, and as we entered a bell jangled harshly.

The man who glowered at us from behind the counter must have stood at least two inches higher than my companion, and his shoulders were bulky and strained from beneath the brown jacket he wore. Surrounding us were display cases and boxes full of wares, but as I looked about I could see little in the way of jewellery, or anything at all expensive or obviously stolen. Holmes did not hesitate, but planted himself firmly opposite to the giant, and fixed him with a hard glare.

"You remember me, Robinson. I called here this morning."

Robinson's sullen face turned to me as I stepped up beside Holmes, and I stared him down, defying the silent threat of his body language.

"You have the item that I requested?"

Robinsons' brows tangled and lowered, until his face looked positively bestial, but his expression twisted until it was quite similar to that of the sulky child I had encountered that afternoon, and at once I knew we had the advantage of him.

"I have it. But why shouldn' you pay for it? I come by it legal, and law says ye have tae pay me what is owed. Why shan't ye pay me what I'm owed?"

Holmes' hand sliced the air like a blade, silencing his protests.

"The only thing you are owed is a prison cell. I have evidence against you in the string of recent robberies. You cannot hide your connections to the Irishman O'Reilly, and his criminal dealings. And I know you were the culprit in the Lyons case. You will co-operate with me, or I shall serve you with a noose!"

The savage tones of his voice quite cowed the larger man, and he handed over a small cloth bag which Holmes at once swept up. I followed him from the shop, and we paused upon the threshold. He looked swiftly around us.

"We should be away from here quickly, Watson. My bluff as to his crimes will not hold him for long. No doubt that brute has some friends that he means to introduce us to, and it is growing dark. Come!"

I was glad indeed to leave those dangerous alleys and return to the cheerful and busy doings of the public as quickly as possible, and I noticed Holmes himself did not relax until we were back at his rooms. He invited me round the next evening, that I might be present at the return of the heirloom to the anxious bride, and I agreed eagerly before rattling off towards home and wife, mind full of the evening's events.

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The next evening I arrived at the appointed time, and as we traveled to the Hotel Grande, Holmes told me of the family for whom he had been employed. The Lady Dupont and her daughter Charlotte had recently come to England from France in order for the younger woman to marry into a distinguished and titled English family. They were staying at a hotel for the period of the engagement, and the bridgegroom had given Charlotte one of his family heirlooms, a necklace studded with precious gems, to bind her to her promise, and to wear on the day of her wedding. The theft of the prized necklace had placed the young lady in a precarious position as to her marriage, and its return would in fact ensure her future.

Both women were very persistent and emotional in their gratitude, and the few servants they had brought from France were called in to join the celebration. The sinister butler Holmes had described was not present, I noted, but the rest were most joyous, and joined in a drink to the successful find. I noticed, with no little amusement, how the Lady Charlotte had backed my friend into a corner with several of the staff flanking her and forced him to recount the tale of the heirloom's recovery, which he did with much fidgeting, and every other sign of distress I had observed during our period of sharing rooms.

I stifled a chuckle, and pointedly ignored the way his gaze slide to me every so often in a silent plea for help, turning away to find the Lady Dupont smiling behind me. Her accent was strong, but she spoke English very well, and her manner was worldly and kind. Indicating my friend, she asked, "Your friend, Monsieur Holmes, does he have a feminine influence in his life?"

I was quite taken aback at the question, and, taking my silence as misunderstanding her question, she shook her elegant head, and rephrased. "Does he have a wife? Or a fiancée?"

"Ah, no. He is a bachelor."

Lady Dupont gave me a secretive smile.

"It shows, no? Maybe he should find one, and perhaps you would find him a changed man?"

I felt most awkward having this conversation, and I kept one eye on Holmes, who was seeking to extract himself from the Lady Charlotte's attentions, and that of her maids, and sidle across the room towards me.

"I am sure that he would be, Lady Dupont, but he has no interest as far as matters of the heart go. His work is his life, and he wants no other."

As Holmes reached me, the lady gave both of us a wide smile, which charged her face with a fresh youth.

"That is no whole life, Doctor Watson! Monsieur Holmes, my daughter and I am most gratified for the services you've extended to us. If there is any way in which we may repay you.."

But my friend declined, the family having already paid the expenses of his investigations, and thus, with Holmes practically radiating impatience at my side, we paid our respects and wished our client the season's greetings. Upon reaching the road, I was surprised to see a layer of snow blanketing the ground, which our shoes crunched loudly in, and a few flakes falling from the sky.

I was most excited, having always enjoyed white Christmases as a youth, the pain in my leg from the cold easily brushed aside in my exuberance, and I remarked to Holmes how much the snow complimented the season.

He gave me a look of horror.

"But it's freezing, Watson!"

I could not say I was put off by his reaction. During our years in Baker Street he had always shown a profound indifference to the festive season, and a loathing for the extended crowds and the assorted paraphernalia of the traditions. Nevertheless, I determined there and then to visit him on Christmas Eve and perhaps persuade him at least to join in a meal with me, or indulge in the harmless and charming tradition of the Yuletide Log.

However, as I studied the sharp lines of his face studying the people around us, and the way he huddled against the cold while he looked for a cab, I did not dare to hope for much.

He had once remarked that he hated Christmas almost as much as he did his illustrations in the stories I published for the Strand, meaning that his loathing of the holiday could not possibly be overestimated.

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**Author's Note: **_My first Sherlock Holmes story! Yay!!!_

_I'm having difficulty with the line breaks, so my author's note is down here._

_I meant this to be a series of drabbles, but I just couldn't stop writing, so this first chapter is very long. No doubt it will thwart me again and every chapter will be of this length. Sigh._

_Anyway, I meant to introduce the character Jemima in this chapter, but it wasn't meant to be, so for those who were horrified at the mention of a feminine influence over Holmes, it's NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE._

_No doubt, everyone's probably guessed her identity from the Disclaimer already. :)_

_Any reviews or concrit will be welcomed. _

_I'd like to know what you think of my characterisation. I do have the 'The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes' which I am currently re-reading for the 4th or so time, and I am an avid fan of Granada, but this is the first time I've tried my hand at this particular genre, and I'd really like to be as enjoyable and accurate as possible, especially so because of the high quality of writers in this fandom, so please send me suggestions._

_Thanks,** Taluliaka**  
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	2. The Package

**Author's Notes : **_I'd like to thank my first five reviewers; icebluehost, Kaizoku Shojo, Foggyknight, Slightly Obssessive and KCS. I would particularly like to thank KCS, as I never believed the veteran of so many amazing SH stories would be the first to review this piece. :)_

_I'm very out of breath at the moment. I've been chasing 'Jemima' around, trying to get an accurate mental description of her for this chapter. :)_

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock Holmes. I do however, quite literally own 'Jemima'. Her picture is now on my profile, if you're curious. :)

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Despite my misgivings, on Christmas Eve I set off for Holmes' rooms, bearing under one arm a sizeable chunk of firewood which I was determined would fulfil the tradition of the Yuletide Log. Cheery lights flared from the houses along the way, and here and there I encountered a group of carolers, bundled up warmly against the frosty air. The sharp, crisp smell of snow permeated the streets, and the entire scene was so peaceful and homely that my spirits could not help being lifted.

They died a quick death, however, upon my speaking to Mrs Hudson upon my arrival. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen into the entrance hall, but apparently Holmes was having none of it.

"He told me to take it away, Doctor. He is in a most foul mood this evening! And of all evenings as well…"

I left the hard-pressed landlady to fume, and ascended to the sitting room. I paused before the door, unnerved by the silence from within, and heeding Mrs Hudson's words, concealed the wood piece behind my back, meaning to first ascertain my friend's mood before forcing merriment upon him.

Upon my entering the room, the first thing that caught my eye was the blur of papers stirring across the desk and over the floor, blown thus by the wide open windows. It was a frosty evening, and the temperature of the room made me give a surprised shiver. The gas was not lit, so it took a moment for me to perceive the dark figure sprawled in Holmes' chair, and another to realise that it was indeed my friend that reclined there. The grotesque haphazard nature of his long limbs, played over indistinctly by the guttering flames of the fire, gave me quite a turn, knowing as I did the constant danger which his chosen profession placed him in, and I turned up the gas seeking to extinguish my writer's vivid imagination.

My friend's head was sunk forward onto his shoulders, and a pipe smouldered as though forgotten in his slack fingers, but as light filled the room his head snapped up with the same swiftness that characterised all his movements, however small.

"Ah, Watson", he said. "I suppose season's greetings are in order."

I sat opposite him, wedging the wood between me and the chair, seeing with a sinking heart the familiar far-away look in his normally sharp gaze that, when coupled with his lackluster appearance, invariably bespoke of the use of narcotics. However, as I did not wish for our night to commence with an argument, I endeavored to ignore it.

"And to you. How have you been, my dear fellow?"

In truth, I was most disturbed by his appearance. With the solving of the Lady Charlotte's case, he appeared to have fallen into the blackest of reactions in the few days I had not seen him.

"I fear that the reaction has come upon me. Certainly the season does nothing to improve my mood."

As he spoke, he moved to the sideboard to fetch us a drink, knocking out his pipe upon the table in the process and leaving it there. His mouse-coloured dressing gown hung loose about him, intercepting my attempt to ascertain his health, although his face had looked both pale and gaunt in the light of the gas-jet.

"So no interesting criminal news then?" I inquired hopefully as he returned to his seat, taking the glass he gave me, still attempting to judge his present soundness whilst not rousing his suspicions. Holmes had always been quite intolerant of my attempts to advise him in my professional capacity as a physician, in some cases retreating fully into his rooms and barring the doors against me when I would not be swayed.

"It seems that even crime is not immune to the disgusting romanticism which taints this time of year. The papers now are printing useless and emotional articles which no doubt you have perused with great interest, Watson, but which are of no practical importance to me."

I attempted not to allow his tone to affect me, but the conversation nevertheless dwindled into silence, as Holmes glared at the fire and I shifted uncomfortably as the wood dug sharply into my back. Through the window drifted thin strains of song as the carolers moved closer.

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My gaze wandered across the room, and surprise jolted me from my silence.

"Is that a Christmas tree?"

A sad, wilted branch of pine lay abandoned under the breakfast table, sagging in its pot.

Holmes propped his head on one of his thin hands, and followed my gaze.

"Short of throwing it from the window, and inciting one of Mrs Hudson's rants, I could not think of a place for it where the sight would not annoy me."

I could not help bursting into laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation. I rose, pulled out the wood from its hiding place and showed it to Holmes, splinters raining onto the carpet as my hand shook from the force of my amusement. Holmes sat back in his chair, staring from me to the wood in surprise, and the sight of his confusion only made me laugh harder.

I tossed the log into the fire, and raised my glass to my friend.

"You are, without a doubt, the most infuriating man I have ever met."

Despite his eyebrows still being raised to his hairline, he returned the gesture, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I drained my glass, and was warmed by the alcohol as much as by the change of mood in the room.

The carolers were quite loud now as they passed beneath the windows, and Holmes rose and looked out at them in annoyance.

"They are a tenacious lot, these carolers. No doubt they will continue until every man in London has lost his goodwill towards his fellow man, and focused instead on murder."

I chuckled, standing near the fire as it grew more pleasantly warm, the flames devouring my Yuletide Log.

"I think Lestrade would be quite put out to have to work on Christmas Day."

My friend snorted, and closed the window, muffling the sound.

There was a knock upon the door, and Mrs Hudson entered, bearing a laden tray. She smiled at me as Holmes made no complaint, and I knew the excellent woman had used both her faith in my abilities as a friend, and her knowledge of her lodger's moods, to know when to bring up the meal. It was an excellent repast, and we were both sitting in a comfortable silence afterwards smoking when a singular interruption occurred.

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A package had been delivered to Holmes, and it was set on the cleared table. In curiosity I walked over to examine it, while Holmes remained in his chair, lazily sending smoke curling into the air. The package was in the form of a large box, with, I noticed with some surprise, numerous holes punched into the lid and sides.

"Who is it from?"

I read the tag attached.

"It's from the Lady Dupont. But it seems someone in the post office has been at this, Holmes. It's riddled with holes."

This captured my friend's attention, and he joined me at the table, examining the package with particular attention. As he opened it, I took a few steps away, working out the stiffness in my bad leg, not wanting to seem intrusive by seeing whatever the contents were. I turned back quickly, however, as he heard my friend's sharp intake of breath.

Limping over, I lent over and looked in, and saw, with no little shock, two glowing eyes staring back.

Holmes made no attempt to move, so I reached in and lifted out the contents.

It was a tabby kitten, all striped and patterned with a muddle of colours. The soft fur was tinted a gentle grey, overlaid with patches of tan and black. The pricked ears had tufts of black fur, and its belly was a bright gold, covered in dark spots, contrasting sharply to the dark, thick stripes on its head and back. The tiny tail switched, and it let out a piteous mew.

I was attempting to understand Lady Dupont's reasoning for this strange, and judging by Holmes' astonished expression, unwelcome gift, when a thought struck me. Lifting the tail, I observed the kitten was female.

I recalled my and the lady's conversation, and had to smile.

"A feminine influence, indeed."

With a broad grin, I thrust the kitten into my friend's frozen arms, and with a yelp he grabbed at it, nearly dropping her.

My tone was positively mischievous, as I thought on how this would affect my friend's solitary and set habits.

"Merry Christmas, Holmes."

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_I'm pretty sure these chapters will get shorter now, in accordance with my drabble/scene layout._

_Any reviews or concrit will be welcomed._

_Thanks, __**Taluliaka**_


	3. The Name

**Author's Notes : **_ Thank you to: The Big M, icebluehost, KCS, Chewing Gum, Foggyknight, Cat and ShylockFox for your lovely reviews. :) I had meant to update this sooner, but of course, Real Life got in the way, with my first week of university, and so on. Watching 'Jemima' attempt to fit into a shopping bag today reminded me of this fic, and so here I am._

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock Holmes. I do however, quite literally own 'Jemima'. Her picture is now on my profile, if you're curious. :)

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I must admit that it was a morbid sort of curiosity that brought me to 221B in early January, 1887. Knowing as I did my friend's habits, my thoughts had constantly strayed to the kitten. I did not think that Holmes, inhumane and immune to the softer emotions as he could occasionally be, would have let the defenceless creature out onto the streets. But I could not help remembering the list I had made of my friend's limitations. There was no room in Holmes' lumber-room for practical gardening, or, so I judged from that inference, for care of a pet.

My imagination ranged through various scenarios, most I conceded to being most unlikely, but they all ended in the premature demise of the unfortunate creature from some slight oversight on Holmes' part, or indeed, from being overridden in importance by some new and urgent case. I knew well enough that the detective barely paid attention to his own needs during a particularly difficult problem, let alone to the well-being of others, and would no doubt be unaware of the care needed by such a delicate and sensitive animal as a kitten.

Thus, as I entered the familiar sitting room, I was not at all surprised to find my friend in his chair, apparently alone and reading a newspaper. I seated myself across from him, content to wait in customary silence until the thread of his thoughts ended, and I gazed in feigned nonchalance about me, attempting to see any tell-tale signs of an animal's co-habitation. My search was interrupted by Holmes' own keen scrutiny over the top of his paper.

"There's no point looking around, Watson." He sighed, bunching the paper into a ball and tossing it in the general direction of the sofa.

To my great amazement, this action revealed the object of my thoughts, limbs loose and tangled in the sound sleep that infants of all species are capable to fall into, regardless of outside noise or activity.

My expression was enough to bring amusement to the sharp planes of his face.

"I trust you were not searching the pavement for her remains? I am capable of many things, but I do hope throwing an animal from an upper window would cause _some_ sort of moral conflict in my mind."

Sherlock Holmes had a tendency to answer my inner thoughts rather than my attempts at conversation, and I did feel some little guilt over my earlier theories. Happily, Holmes seemed to have disregarded any insult contained within my musings, and was now glaring down at the kitten.

"It was a close thing though. This confounded animal refuses to leave me alone."

To my amusement, he prodded the sleeping animal with a thin finger, but that resulted only in a luxurious stretch, and a glimpse of pink pads framed by golden stripes on the underside of her legs.

"It's almost as if she thinks you're her owner."

That comment sent an equally sharp look in my direction, but my entirely benign expression seemed to throw him, and he considered the mound of fur almost thoughtfully.

"For all her pathetic size, she is disturbingly protective of me."

"How so?"

"She growled at Mycroft."

"She _growled_ at _Mycroft_?"

The surprise in my tone made him look up, and raise his eyebrows slightly.

"I didn't even know cats could growl."

"Of course they can, Watson. A cat is, after all, a distant relative of the large cats of Africa. Tigers can growl, as I'm sure you can attest to. It is a fairly common form of defence amongst most creatures, I would assume."

But my mind had already focused on another mystery within his statement.

"You took her to Pall Mall?"

"No, of course not! What a notion, that I should stroll about London with a cat! I am not in the habit, Doctor, of placing live animals in my pockets, and taking cabs to visit relatives!"

This brought a rather abrupt end to our conversation, and I shifted awkwardly in my chair as Holmes stood violently, in the process knocking the kitten to the floor where she bounded away under the table, and moved to the Persian slipper. I noticed, with a sinking heart, that it was the long-stemmed cherrywood pipe he had taken.

"Mycroft happened to be nearby, and invited himself in. Whatever point there was in his visit I never discovered, because upon seeing Jemima I was forced to waste several hours explaining to him where …"

I could not resist interrupting.

"Jemima?"

"Yes, Jemima." Holmes replied rather testily, sending up a plume of smoke.

"After the only woman Mycroft was ever frightened of."

From under the table, the kitten's eyes gleamed a fierce yellow in the light of the fire.

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_My goodness, my Holmes seems to be in a perpetually bad mood. :)_

_Any reviews or concrit will be welcomed._

_Thanks, __**Taluliaka**_


	4. The Ghost

**Author's Notes:** _Long time no see. Trying to shock myself back into gear, therefore, the drabbles/scenes are no longer in chronological order. This one is based during the Hiatus, where Watson has issues, and I may do a few followups, before returning to kitten-hood. Thank you to: Skizzorsaregangsta, Cat, __Rhivanna, AmatorLinguae, Chewing Gum, Slightly Obssessive, Quickenmyend, Icebluehost, KCS and MJLS. Warning: dark themes._

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**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

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She was Jemima, a little girl who had sent my friend down that solitary path from where there was (how could there be) no return.

She was Holmes, taken by the cruel waters beyond where I could follow.

She was Mary, eyes already upon the next world even as I begged her to stay.

And there _she_ stood, her warm body sending frissons of disgust through me as she rubbed against my legs. The warm and breathing presence, the dead eyes of Mary, the little girl in the attic, the bloated corpse of Holmes, flesh pounded and pounded and pounded away by the icy water.

And I throw her away, far away, and close the door on her fawning, on her desperate affection, the same affection that drew Holmes from his stupor, which made Mary's smile so bright. I watch the snow swirl past the window. Why, how the wind could cry and shriek in the bitter night! Sometimes it sounds like a cry, like a scream, like the wind itself rages at being locked out of the houses.

I stare at the firelight making patterns on the carpet, and think of dead things, of how it would be for water to lap against you, to swallow you up. How it would be for no one to ever find you, hidden, alone, too far away to reach, even if they lie on your bed, even if you hold their hand and call their name.

Dead things and ghosts and water lapping on the carpet, light sparking amber tones in the whisky on the table.

The blizzard swirls past, tricking the eyes, making shapes, faces, forms, the shadows of the people I had loved.

The wind raps at the windows, moaning to come inside.

Those shadow people, waiting for someone to open the door.

Holmes. Grey eyes warm with pleasure. Mary's bright red cheeks and playful smile.

_Come out into the snow John._

_Do come._

But there is no one, no one, only a muffled sob, of the lost, of the abandoned, a cold bundle of fur shivering on the stoop.

Wet and wretched and alone, betrayed by the one she trusted.

And I scoop her up and bring her out of the cold, wrap her in my coat, watch her glazed eyes reflect the fire.

And I weep for the first time, soaking her fur still further, huddled and rocking, we two lost and mortal things burning away the memories, filling our eyes with fire.

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_Any reviews or concrit will be appreciated (and marvelled at, because, come on, it's been like a year),_

_Thanks, **Taluliaka**._


	5. The Path

**Author's Notes: **_Another Hiatus drabble. In the aftermath of the Reichenbach, Mycroft meets Watson to reveal a truth. About the lullaby: My inspiration was from a piece in Guillermo del Toro's film 'Pan's Labyrinth', which can be heard on Youtube at: **.com/watch?v=boz2bGu5M4A** if you're interested._

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

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When Mycroft comes, I am standing lost in our old rooms, watching Jemima roaming, poking her noses into corners, flicking her tail, her shadow black against the wall. As he comes in, she bounds under a chair, hissing furiously, her tail switching in agitation.

"I do hope you're taking charge of the beast," he says to me, pointing to the cat with his cane.  
"She never quite took to me, even as a kitten." Jemima bares her fangs at him and swivels her ears back against her skull, the very picture of feline fury. Mycroft chuckles from somewhere deep in his vast, mourning-clad bulk, and I stare blindly at the black cloths that cover the picture frames.

"A kitten.." I echo quietly, thinking of souls trapped in mirrors. Mycroft's piercing gaze, so like his brother's, cannot fully rouse me from my stupor. I feel strangely heavy, anchored to the ground, and I do not resist as he pushes me into a chair. _His chair. _My skin crawls.

"Did he ever tell you?" The question hangs in the room, swooping with dark wings. Did he ever tell me why. _Why_. I wish I could say he had done, that I knew, that he would, or could trust with such half-sensed, dark things as the subject of her name. That our grand friendship had extended to such things. Not one soul in London knew that we did not whisper our secrets aloud to each other, that he was as closed to me, then, now, still, as he was to any common stranger. The shame is hard to swallow, bitter on the tongue, Mycroft pushing a glass into my nerveless hands, expression somewhere between sympathy and exasperation.

He tells me, finally, the story caught in the closed-up rooms, haunting it, possessing it. He tells me of Jemima, and as he speaks the knowledge swells within me: I shall never be able to come back here. I half-see the events unfold; the little girl in the attic, dying as the sunlight fades, poison convulsing her young body until even her sobs are choked and shattered by them. I can see the last rays of sunlight making her hair glow, turning his fine hands translucent as he holds her, his gentle humming, trying to make the horror of her last moments a little farther away, her mother's ancient lullaby smoothing the way to sleep. I can even see him pacing in his brother's rooms, all the fear and guilt and rage and horror and despair in his twisting pianist's hands, how difficult it must have been to cage those demons and leave with some semblance of dignity. The ghost of Sherlock's pride.

"But he told me that she was the only woman you ever feared."

Mycroft smiles gently. "She was a formidable woman indeed. To set my wayward brother so irrevocably upon his path. I never spoke to him of the matter again, after her."

The ghost between them. Sending Holmes down that road, which only ended… To the only possible ending it could ever have, with such a beginning.

It is only later when it becomes clear to me. When I sit up, gulping huge gasps of air, Mary asleep by my side, the nightmare folding away into the shadows of our bedroom.

I remember Holmes..oh how could I forget? Every so often, when a particular case would not release its grip on him, and he would walk in all the watches of the night and refuse to eat, growing hollow-eyed and bony. How sometimes the wailing of his violin would come floating up the stairs, a strange tune which set me to shivering under my sheets, an eerie music which I had always thought was some mad improvisation upon his part.

But it wasn't. Because if souls can be trapped in mirrors, then why not a dead girl's lullaby twisted up in the strings of the Stradivarius?

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_Concrit and reviews appreciated._

**_Taluliaka._**


	6. The Plunge

**Author's Notes : **_Thanks to my reviewers asdef, reflekshun, Slightly Obssessive, and BiebsyBiebs, and to all those who have added this to their Favourites, or placed it on Alert. Now we are back to kitten-hood for a few chapters._

_Just randomly, my mother came in and asked me if I'd moved during the last several hours. My telling her I was in a black mood didn't have the same kind of effect it would had she been an SH fan. I am also now the proud owner of a handsome leather-handled, gold-lined magnifying glass, which I could not resist buying in an antique store. :D_

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock Holmes. I do however, quite literally own 'Jemima'. Her picture is now on my profile, if you're curious. :)

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Stepping over the threshold of the address 221B Baker Street was an action always fraught with peril. In the years in which I had lodgings there, there was no telling what so mundane an action as opening our joint sitting room door would bring – stumbling over a veritable storm of papers which had contrived to spread themselves over every conceivable surface in my absence, or to find the room virtually uninhabitable after a series of Holmes' malodorous chemical experiments, or to find my friend in deep discussion with some client, or Inspector Lestrade, or, indeed, on one rather remarkable occasion, to step blindly into the midst of a violent altercation with a very dangerous and active group of thugs, from which I still bear the scars. So it was not at all surprising that, although I relished the comfort and peace of my own house, crossing into its hall had never given me that same thrill in the nerves, that feeling that was half-excitement, half-dread- and all pleasure, I must admit- of the unknown dangers which lurked behind that unremarkable piece of wood.

I must confess, therefore- and never in less private a medium as this my own journal- that my visits to my friend in those months after my marriage was as much to my benefit and enjoyment as to his. I was being starved of those grotesque and intensely exciting experiences I had once found as ordinary and routine as my toilet in the morning-and thus my footsteps continually led me back along that particular street, like some bird returning to alight on his native soil. On some occasions I would not enter at all, and merely seeing my friend's spare silhouette on the blind was enough to reassure me that his own life was still springing and spiraling along in a tempest of high action and lowest depression indicative of the two imperious natures that warred within him, and that, if I wished for more than just fond memories through perusal of my case notes, all I had to do was take a breath and plunge back into the river of crime Holmes perpetually swam through.

And so, on this particular evening, despite a trying day at my fledgling practice, the thought of returning to hearth and home was a grating one. I had looked in on Mrs Swanson in her confinement in Paddington, and had hailed a cab to bear me homewards. But as we clopped down the Marylebone Road, I was all stung to restlessness and intense curiosity as to how my friend was entertaining himself, and what intriguing case he may even now be entangled. Therefore I called out to the cabby and soon found myself alighting on the footpath in front of my old lodgings, and shivering, perhaps, not so much with the cold as with excitement.

Soon I stood before my old friend – the varnished timbers that had so often yielded before me so that I could be once more enveloped in the all-consuming mysteries which Holmes so skillfully unraveled. But upon opening the door, I was greeted by rather a curious sight –not at all unfamiliar-but bordering on the comical all the same. It seemed a storm of documents had once again savagely railed upon the furniture, threatening to engulf my friend's ankles where he stood in the midst of them. Holmes had a sheaf of papers in one hand, where he was examining with the most minute attention, and Jemima absently clutched in the other. This was evidently not much to the creature's liking, as she was uttering piteous mews, and struggling to be freed. I was about to attempt to forge a path to the sofa when, without once glancing up from the documents on which his attention was arrested, he said,

"Watson, if you would be so kind as to remove your foot from my draft monograph on the usefulness of animal behaviours in ascertaining certain points about crimes and criminal natures, I would be infinitely obliged to you."

I hastily shifted my foot. Jemima uttered another kittenish yowl of distress. Holmes threw his papers to the floor- all but one, which he placed on the breakfast table, where it disappeared into another large pile. How he ever found anything in these searches was completely beyond my comprehension.

"Everything is in its proper place, Doctor, have no fear."

Holmes, having again inexplicably followed the train of my thoughts, picked his way to the mantelpiece, whereupon finding he needed two hands to load his pipe, to my great amusement he thrust Jemima into the pocket of his dressing-gown.

With not a little care taken on my part I managed to get to the sofa. Holmes observed me from his chair, his eyes glittering through the smoke sent up by his pipe. As I sat down, I detected the gleam of Jemima's eyes peering at me from her hiding place amongst the mouse-coloured fabric.

"You were indeed fortunate to engage a cabby at this time, Watson. They do not get as many fares in Paddington as once they did. It is a fine thing when a man has to chase his mode of transportation through the streets, especially for a medical man already fatigued from a busy day!"

I had no doubt that he had discerned such facts from my person, and from my long acquaintance with him I should have been able to trace such statements to their source material. I was distracted, however, by his restrained manner and bright eyes, and what they signaled.

"You have a case then?"

He gave me one of those darting approximations of a smile I knew so well.

"Perhaps."

Jemima sprang free from her cloth prison and jumped down amongst Holmes' scattered files, her tiny tail flicking as she dived about them, flicking her ears at the rustles they made and inserting striped paws beneath them with playful swipes. Holmes watched her impassively, sending smoke curling up more thickly as she rolled about on the carpet before the fire.

I was on the edge of my seat waiting for particulars, but in my dismay nothing seemed further from his intentions as to enlightening me. Instead he began to ruminate on the behavior of cats, and how one might from their study gain an insight into the savage nature which lurks within all things.

"Witness, Watson, how she seizes upon the paper! With every bite she seeks the underside of the throat, and she kicks at it with her back legs. If this were a live creature, it would now be disemboweled and breathing its last. It is interesting to see that even those who are young, creatures bred in captivity, and irrevocably distanced from their homelands, still retain the terrible hunting instincts of their forebears. In this common housecat, echoes of the tiger can still be seen, and such observations may also be applied to the development of certain houses of men."

I saw something pass behind those sharp grey eyes, and realized all at once the mischief in his heart.

"You seek to distract me, Holmes! I shall have none of it –what of the case, man? I am all on fire with curiosity!"

"What! Then marriage has not fully succeeded in dousing the interest you once held in my little consulting business?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Well then, I shall delay no further in telling you the facts as I so far know them."

I could tell by the suppressed wriggle of his frame that he was well pleased by my admission. Gathering his long, thin legs beneath him, he leaned back silently in his chair, gathering his thoughts, and as Jemima hunted and sported through the documents that surrounded us, I could not help feeling the slow warmth of contentment spread all across me, for I had once again taken the plunge, and would now be rewarded.

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_Any reviews or concrit will be welcomed._

_Thanks, __**Taluliaka.**_


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